


Brushes

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Bakuman
Genre: Alcohol, Closets, Established Relationship, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-02 20:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8682904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Niizuma’s looking at him, his eyes wide with the all-in focus he so often turns on his work and occasionally on Fukuda himself; he has a pair of his feather brushes stuck into the neckline of his sweater to stick up like tiny wings over his shoulders." Niizuma finds Fukuda at the annual holiday party and inhibitions are blurred.





	

Fukuda likes the annual holiday party. He likes parties in general; there’s always some fun to be had just in interacting with a large group of people, the more when it’s the mix of friends and strangers the party offers to everyone who attends. There’s the Ashirogi pair in a corner, looking more comfortable in their own presence here with each passing year, and Aoki is deep in conversation with Iwase, the plate of food in her hands completely forgotten in favor of whatever the other woman is saying. Even Nanamine is here for the first time since his cancellation, his nose as high in the air as ever while Kosugi is occupied in obtaining drinks for them both. Yoshida has Hiramaru ensconced in the corner of the room, where he’ll be least likely to have one of his meltdowns or at least can be kept restrained while he collapses to the floor, and Fukuda can pick both the Hattoris out of the crowd, Ashirogi’s editor as well as his own making their way through the room to offer smiles and handshakes and occasional brief interactions as the situation calls for it.

“Fukuda-sensei.” The words come from just over Fukuda’s shoulder, the voice high and nasal in a way that entirely identifies the speaker even if the title wasn’t enough. “I am glad to see you well.”

And then there’s Niizuma.

Fukuda turns his head to give Niizuma a sideways glance coupled with a quirk of his mouth on the start of a smile. “Must be a surprise after a whole day,” he drawls. “You saw me just yesterday, how much trouble am I going to get into drawing?”

“One never knows,” Niizuma intones. He’s gazing out at the crowd consideringly, his expression abstracted as he takes a bite of one of the appetizers on his plate. “We must all take what comfort we can in our continued health.” His tone is doleful, like he’s putting on a show of maturity three or four times greater than his actual age; it sits oddly on the soft curve of his features, the more so for the everpresent purple sweater and matching pants he’s wearing. “It’s the best way.”

“Yeah,” Fukuda says, still trying to fight back his grin. “What have you been reading to pick up that phrasing?”

“All kinds of things!” Niizuma declares, abruptly dropping his dour persona to fling his arms out wide in indication of his enthusiasm. He nearly hits Fukuda in the face with his plate; it’s only Fukuda’s foresight in lifting a hand to catch the motion to stillness that saves him, and even then it seems more prudent to retrieve the plate and set it at the table behind them to avoid further mishaps. “There have been so many good stories recently. Ashirogi’s, of course, but Nanamine’s new work is fascinating, and yours too!”

“Thanks for the thought,” Fukuda deadpans. Niizuma’s looking at him, his eyes wide with the all-in focus he so often turns on his work and occasionally on Fukuda himself; he has a pair of his feather brushes stuck into the neckline of his sweater to stick up like tiny wings over his shoulders. One of them has tipped sideways and is in danger of working itself loose entirely; Fukuda reaches out to catch the trailing edge of it and tuck it back to a more secure angle. “Glad to hear you haven’t given my work up as a lost cause just yet.”

“Of course I haven’t,” Niizuma says. He seems entirely unaware of Fukuda’s touch at his shoulder; his attention is fixed on the other’s face still, his eyes wide and mouth soft on the steady weight of his focus. “It’s good. Besides, you said it would be an embarrassment if your boyfriend stopped reading your work.”

Fukuda can feel his cheeks go hot in a wave, all the blood in his face rushing to span his cheekbones before draining again to white as his fingers tighten hard against Niizuma’s shoulder. “ _Ssh_ ,” he hisses, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure there’s no one in earshot. There’s not -- the rest of the crowd seems to be condensing in the middle of the room, and Yoshida, the closest person to them, is occupied in handling Hiramaru, currently collapsed to sprawl over the floor -- but Fukuda still lowers his voice anyway as he turns back in to lean towards Niizuma. “You can’t call me that in public.”

“Why not?” Niizuma asks. He sounds sincerely curious, like he doesn’t quite grasp the importance of Fukuda’s insistence. From all their previous conversations, Fukuda thinks this is exactly true. “That’s what you are. Aoki-sensei calls Hiramaru-sensei her boyfriend. There’s no prohibition on authors dating.”

“That’s not the problem,” Fukuda sighs. He’s been over this before, more than once; usually Niizuma understands that there is a need for secrecy, even if the cause of that is something Fukuda struggles to explain in any way that makes sense. “You just can’t call me that in public.”

“There’s no one around,” Niizuma declares, waving his hand to indicate the same space around them Fukuda checked with far more offhand dismissal. “Everyone is busy with the party anyway.”

“We should be too,” Fukuda tells him, still trying to ease the over-adrenalined pound of his heart in his chest from the scare Niizuma gave him. “We should be mingling with everyone else instead of just focusing on each other.”

“I did,” Niizuma says, sweeping his hand through another dismissive flourish. “I’ve said hello to everyone here already and saved you for last.” He reaches for one of the glasses on the table behind him to bring it to his lips. “Do you still need to make an appearance?”

“No,” Fukuda says, his attention pulled away from the topic at hand by the fit of Niizuma’s lips at the edge of the glass and the way his throat shifts as he swallows a long mouthful of liquid. There’s something not-quite-right about the scene, something Fukuda is struggling to fit his mind around; he frowns harder, trying to place it, and Niizuma finishes what liquid was left in the glass and lowers it from his lips, his cheeks flushed with the warmth of the room. The glass clinks against the table as he sets it back down, the sound chiming a note of epiphany into Fukuda’s mind, and he groans realization as he reaches for the empty cup. “How many of these have you _had_?”

“Difficult to say,” Niizuma tells him, tipping his head up to squint at the light as he taps his chin thoughtfully with his finger. “Four or five, maybe?”

“Niizuma-kun,” Fukuda sighs, setting the champagne flute back down so he can lift his hand to shove roughly through his hair instead. “Do you drink at _all_?”

“I am tonight!” Niizuma chirps. “It’s a party, Fukuda-sensei, you’re _supposed_ to have a good time.” He lowers his chin to look around to his far side and reach for another pair of glasses. “We should toast!”

“You’re drunk,” Fukuda tells him. “Or tipsy, at least.” He takes the glass Niizuma offers him, rapidly followed by the second one as well, and turns aside to set them at the table behind him instead of drinking them. “You should have some water to keep from having a headache tomorrow.”

Niizuma waves his hand through the air. “I’m _fine_ ,” he says, his tone as breezily offhand as the gesture of his fingers. “It’s just one glass, Fukuda-sensei.”

“No,” Fukuda says, closing his hands around Niizuma’s wrists to hold the other back and out of reach of the champagne. “Water first.”

Niizuma looks down to Fukuda’s hold on his wrists, his forehead creasing as his mouth draws down into a frown of thought. “Fukuda-sensei,” he says, carefully, like he’s giving the matter serious thought. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to touch you in public?”

“That’s…” Fukuda starts, trailing off when he realizes he doesn’t have a good reply to this. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” Niizuma asks, his forehead still creased on sincere confusion. “But if people aren’t supposed to know we’re dating--”

“You should get some fresh air,” Fukuda says at once, louder than he ought and a rush to cut off whatever Niizuma is going to go on saying in that carelessly clear tone. “I’ll take you. C’mon.” He’s moving as quickly as he speaks, letting his hold at one of Niizuma’s wrists go so he can step past the other and draw him towards the door.

“There’s no need to rush, Fukuda-sensei,” Niizuma tells him, stumbling a little over his footsteps as he twists to follow the lead of Fukuda’s hold at his hand. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“I know you are,” Fukuda says without looking back. “Just come for a walk with me anyway.”

There’s a pause, then: “Ooh,” Niizuma says, in a tone of sudden realization. “Tell me, Fukuda-sensei, what are your intentions regarding this walk?”

Fukuda glances back over his shoulder. Niizuma is still following in his wake willingly enough, isn’t making any attempt to pull his hand free of Fukuda’s hold; his cheeks are still flushed with intoxicated pink, but his gaze is steady on the other’s face from under the lopsided angle of his bangs. Fukuda can feel his fingers tighten with the urge to reach out and push the saturated color of Niizuma’s hair off his face, to settle his palm against the warmth of the color all across the other’s cheekbones and pull Niizuma in against him, the audience of the party around them be damned. Niizuma blinks, his gaze sliding over Fukuda’s face as his head tips to the side as if he’s trying to make out a difficult line of text on a page, and Fukuda has to look away as his fingers press tighter against Niizuma’s wrist.

“Just come with me,” he says, and reaches to push the door open as Niizuma coos over an “ _Ooh_ ” that Fukuda hopes sounds teasing to anyone else who might hear them. It’s only for a moment anyway; then the door is coming open, and Fukuda is leading Niizuma out into the hallway, and whatever audience they might have is left behind the barrier of the door as it swings shut in their wake.

“Fukuda-sensei,” Niizuma says, speeding his steps to almost a jog to bring him in line with the other’s shoulder. “Before you go any farther, you should know that my affections have been previously engaged.” He’s adopting an overblown tone, pitching his voice high like he’s quoting from something; Fukuda thinks he might actually be reciting lines rather than speaking in his own voice. “I would hate to lead you into a false idea regarding my present romantic availability, you see.”

“Dork,” Fukuda says, looking back over his shoulder to give Niizuma an exasperated glance. “I _know_ , I was _there_ for most of it.”

Niizuma blinks. “All of it, actually,” he clarifies, and Fukuda has to huff a laugh as he turns away to consider the hallway again.

“Even better,” he says. There’s the door out to the front garden before them, with the doorman standing at attention just inside; his back is to them, his attention turned out to the wintery chill of the garden outside. Fukuda could get Niizuma out the door without any real difficulties, could probably explain away any unnecessary physical contact with the demands of supporting the other through his first real experience with alcohol; but Niizuma’s breathing harder over his shoulder from the haste with which they left the other room, and Fukuda might not be as intoxicated as the other but he’s had two glasses, enough to cloud the very edges of his judgment and loosen his grip on his usual inhibitions.

“Here,” he says, and reaches out with his free hand for the handle of the shut door along the side of the main hallway, the one dedicated to holding the jackets and coats too formal or too heavy to be worn farther than the front entrance of the party. It comes open at a pull, giving way to the shadowy weight of hanging coats lining one side of the interior and an empty space for what remains, and Fukuda ducks inside without hesitating, drawing Niizuma in his wake to press them both into the cramped space so he can pull the door shut behind them.

“Ah,” Niizuma says, his voice whisper-soft but still sounding loud in the enclosed space. “Fukuda-sensei, this is not the garden.”

“No,” Fukuda agrees. His heart is racing in his chest, his pulse coming fast with the thrill of recklessness he feels, sometimes, when he cuts a corner close on his motorcycle or twists the accelerator to carry him over the speed limit on a long straightaway. The closet is cramped with both of them in it, Fukuda’s shoulders brush the coats behind him when he shifts at all; but he can hear the rush of Niizuma’s breathing in front of him, and when he lets the other’s wrist go to lift his hand through the darkness his fingers find warm skin, drag over the high arch of the other’s cheekbone as Fukuda feels his way to Niizuma’s hair. “It’s not.”

“This is exciting,” Niizuma tells him, offering the words in a stage whisper as Fukuda slides his fingers back through the soft weight of the other’s hair to curl at the back of his neck. “You seem experienced with this, have you done this before Fukuda-sensei?”

Fukuda shakes his head, giving unvoiced negation that goes unobserved against the dark of the closet. “No,” he says, the word rumbling far in the back of his throat, and then he leans forward into the dark to press his mouth to Niizuma’s. He misses his mark at first -- his lips catch at warm skin, fit against the line of Niizuma’s jaw instead of the give of his mouth -- but Niizuma makes a soft noise of encouragement anyway as he turns his head in pursuit of Fukuda’s mouth. Fukuda kisses against Niizuma’s jaw, cheek, at the corner of his mouth; and then, finally, lands against the warmth of the other’s lips. Niizuma’s mouth is half-open, his lips soft and unresisting the press of Fukuda’s, and he tastes sweet, like the champagne on his tongue is still clinging to the damp of his lips too. Fukuda shuts his eyes out of instinct more than necessity, and presses his other hand against the other side of Niizuma’s head, and when he shifts in closer Niizuma tips his head to the side in silent permission, his hand coming up so his fingers can slide over the smooth weight of Fukuda’s hair falling across his shoulders. Fukuda tightens his hand against Niizuma’s hair, touches his tongue against the other’s lips, and Niizuma opens his mouth without the least hesitation at offering this surrender. Fukuda presses closer, lets his hand slide down by an inch, and there’s the brush of feathers at his wrist as the edge of one of Niizuma’s brushes skims against his skin. Fukuda hesitates for a moment, pulls back as the ticklish sensation reminds him where they are and what they ought to be doing; and Niizuma whines a low note in the back of his throat, and tightens his hold on Fukuda’s hair to pull the other back in as he leans in to close the distance himself. Fukuda has to huff a laugh even as he capitulates to the urging of Niizuma’s hold, and then Niizuma’s mouth is back on his and Fukuda can feel all his attention giving way to recenter on this one point.

Any real protest he might have to offer is swept away by the feathers pressing soft against his wrist.


End file.
